Socratic Flippancy

Throughout this first chapter, Socrates displays a lighthearted attitude toward ambition, and toward politics itself. The initial effort to send the young companion to Dionysodorus—if Plato's presentation of Dionysodorus is to be trusted (cf. Euthydemus)—was itself an act of flippancy, especially given Socrates’ own apparent competence as a teacher of aspiring generals. Why did Socrates not teach the youth himself? The decision to send the youth back to Dionysodorus, after Dionysodorus had proven his inferiority as a teacher, is even stranger. Most striking of all, however, is the Socratic joke that, upon learning how to be a general, the youth already appears “more majestic” than before, and is in fact already a general (III.1.4).

This claim is, on the one hand, obviously absurd. Being a general requires actually receiving the office of general and exercising its power. One does not earn the title of general simply by learning the art of generalship. And yet we must keep in mind that when he was joking, Socrates “was no less profitable to those who spent time with him than when he was serious” (IV.1.1, cf. I.3.8). Accordingly, this Socratic joke has a playful side but also a more serious implication.

We may begin to uncover that implication through a closer consideration of what the joke sets aside or ignores. By focusing only on the possession of the “art” of generalship, the joke sets aside or ignores not only the exercise of the art, but especially the presence of the desire to exercise it, or to exercise it well—that is, the desire, and not merely the ability, to do “great good things” (1.3), presumably for the city. In this sense, we may say that the joke sets aside the question of virtue. For the virtue of a general must consist not, or not merely, in his knowledge of the art of generalship, but especially in his desire to be a good general.Footnote ⁸ The virtue of a general and the desire to be a cavalry commander are discussed in the two chapters which follow. And yet the word “virtue” is never mentioned in this chapter. In his joke, Socrates omits any consideration of the desire to act, or the fact of acting, on the city's behalf. That omission grows even stranger when we realize that Socrates himself—if we may judge from the advice that he offers the youth (1.6–11)—appears to possess the art of generalship. And yet he does not exercise, or even attempt to exercise, that art (cf. Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 56–7); he therefore fails to possess the virtue of generalship.

But this observation brings us to a troubling question. Is the virtue of a general worth possessing? Perhaps Socrates simply lacks the proper nature for becoming a general (cf. III.1.6). But it is also possible that he lacks a sufficient motive to put his knowledge of the art of generalship into action. Why does Socrates, in responding to the youth, appear to ignore the exercise of the art of generalship, focusing only on its possession? Has he concluded that becoming a general, or, to speak more broadly, becoming a ruler or a statesman, would not be good for him?

To ground the suspicion that the goodness of ruling is a question or a problem for Xenophon or his Socrates, we must turn back to the opening pages of the Memorabilia. In Chapter One of Book One, Socrates had claimed that, with regard to the various arts, “what is most important (ta de megista)” is whether the exercise of the art will be good for the practitioner of the art. And yet we were surprised to discover—as he went on to reveal, at the center of a list of three pairs of uncertainties—that it is not clear to the skilled general “whether to lead the army is to his advantage; nor to the skilled statesman is it clear whether to preside over the city is to his advantage” (I.1.8). The skilled statesman (politikos), apparently even in his prototypical or essential form, lacks clarity as to whether statesmanship is good for him. That knowledge is extrinsic to the art of statesmanship as such; it is “not clear to human beings,” but rather reserved by the gods for themselves (I.1.8). Assuming that Socrates is to be classified among human beings (anthropoi), we must conclude that he, too, whatever his knowledge of statesmanship, does not know the most important thing about rule.

And yet Xenophon almost immediately calls that conclusion into question. For he writes that Socrates “was always conversing about human things,” examining, among other things, “what is a statesman, what is rule over human beings, what is a skilled ruler over human beings” (I.1.16). And Socrates believed that knowledge of these thingsFootnote ⁹ made one a gentleman, “while those who are ignorant of them would justly be called slavish” (I.1.16). Assuming that Socrates does not consider himself to be slavish (cf. IV.8.6), we must conclude that he does possess at least some knowledge of the essence of rule and of the statesman.Footnote ¹⁰

One might reasonably object, of course, that the preceding evidence does not entitle us to conclude that Socrates ever attained clarity about the goodness of rule. And even if he did, perhaps that clarity was merely a gift from his daimonic voice (cf. I.1.4 with I.1.9). But Xenophon's final statement in the Memorabilia suggests otherwise. For Socrates was, in Xenophon's estimation, “so prudent as not to make mistakes in deciding what was better and worse, nor to need another in addition, but to be self-sufficient (autarkēs) in his judgment of these matters; and competent also to say and to define such things in speech” (IV.8.11). Not only was Socrates prudent with regard to the better and the worse, but in addition his prudence was not dependent on divine assistance. If Socrates did not make mistakes in deciding what was better and what was worse, then his decision to avoid conventional political engagement (cf. I.6.15) must have been a manifestation of his prudence. We are left, then, with a series of puzzles. Did Socrates, after all, attain some clarity beyond what is granted to human beings or beyond the human realm? Did he obtain not merely a personal prudence, but also some theoretical knowledge of rule as such? And if so, how did he settle the question of its goodness?

Socratic Debunking

Second, the initial Socratic perspective seems to involve a great deal of debunking. Socrates’ young companion was not taught how to distinguish good from bad soldiers. He wishes Socrates to examine this with him (III.1.10). Socrates immediately analogizes the soldiers’ love of honor to a gang of robbers’ love of money. Robbers put themselves at risk for the sake of money; soldiers put themselves at risk for the sake of praise. The analogy presents courage through an offensively reductionist and amoral lens; the love of honor is merely another form of the desire for gain. Because the ambitious ones, who love honor or praise, are “highly visible everywhere,” it will be easy to select them (III.1.10) and to put them on the front lines. But this statement raises two further questions. Is not the young companion himself an ambitious lover of honor? And being an ambitious lover of honor, does he desire to rule because ruling is good in itself, or because ruling is a means to his true good, honor?

The characterization of honor as a payment thus points us back to the question of the goodness of rule. One might claim that simply possessing the ruling virtue is choiceworthy in its own right. But those who desire the ruling virtue also seem to desire a reward—at least the reward of office (timē), understood as an opportunity to put their virtue into action (see Lorch Reference Lorch2010). Or is the exercise of the ruling virtue itself a sacrifice? This would seem to be indicated by the great desire for honor (timē) as a recompense for the activity of rule. If having a ruler's virtue and exercising the virtue of a ruler were good in themselves, why would honor be necessary? But if the exercise of the virtue were bad for the ruler, why would the office itself be seen as an honor and a reward? Citizens and leaders seem to see rule as, on the whole, both intrinsically appealing and as a noble service or sacrifice deserving of recompense in the form of honor. But can it be both?

The Investigation into Ambition

The Socratic investigation of ambition that follows in the next six chapters of the Memorabilia delves into whether, in what ways, or under what conditions ruling is good or bad for a ruler. Socrates’ ostensibly flippant and debunking starting point is thus highly provisional. That perspective, the perspective of a detached philosophic observer of politics, raises far more questions than it answers, and must in fact be set aside in favor of a careful, attentive, and immersive inquiry into the thoughts and desires of ambitious men themselves. That inquiry takes place over the next six chapters, which present six different models of rule.

The Character of Sacrificial Rule

Socrates begins the chapter with a question. Why, he asks the general, did Homer call Agamemnon “shepherd of the people/the men (laoi)”? According to Socrates’ explanation, Homer meant by this that Agamemnon was the shepherd of the soldiers. Didn't Homer use this title, Socrates asks, “because, just as shepherds should attend to it that the ewes will be safe and have their provisions and that the purpose for which they are sustained will be achieved, so also the general must attend to it that the soldiers will be safe and have their provisions so that the purpose for which they go on campaign will be achieved? And they go on campaign so that through overpowering their enemies they’ll be happier.” (III.2.1).

But this claim raises as many difficulties as it solves. First and most obviously, is it really true that leaders seek primarily to provide for the safety and happiness of their soldiers, as if they were fragile ewes? Or doesn't a good leader primarily focus on—and doesn't even the soldiers’ dignity consist in being directed toward—achieving “the purpose for which they are sustained,” namely winning the war? In addition, Socrates quietly draws our attention to a potential disharmony of interest between the shepherd and his sheep. A shepherd does not care about his sheep for their own sake. Rather, the safety and the provisions of the sheep, as Socrates implies, are only a means to the achievement of “the purpose for which they are sustained.” The supposedly direct analogy between shepherds and generals, then, leads us to wonder: is there ever a disharmony between the interest of the general and the interest of the soldiers? Mustn't the general, in fact, afford safety and provisions to the soldiers only insofar as doing so proves to be more useful to the war effort than putting the soldiers at risk?Footnote ¹¹

With these questions in mind, we are alerted to a shift that occurs after Socrates’ question in line one. Isn't it the case, he asks, that just as “shepherds should attend to it that the ewes will be safe and have their provisions and that the purpose for which they are sustained will be achieved, so also the general must attend to it that the soldiers will be safe and have their provisions so that the purpose for which they go on campaign will be achieved? And they go on campaign so that through overpowering their enemies they’ll be happier.” (III.2.1). Suddenly Socrates describes the soldiers’ purpose in going on campaign. But is this purpose identical with “the purpose for which they are sustained”? Or is there not a potential tension between the purpose of the leader and the purpose of his soldiers? The shepherd analogy had prepared us to believe that the general would concern himself with the safety and the provisions of the soldiers as a means to achieving his own purpose, namely winning the war. And yet the soldiers, reversing the means and the end, apparently see their involvement and their victory in the war merely as a means to their own happiness. The general, then, if his priority is winning the war simply, would seem to be fundamentally separate from, or even above, the soldiers. And yet no self-respecting general would want to say that he does not care about their happiness. Certainly the soldiers themselves must be, in an important sense, dearest to the general's heart.

Accordingly, the next section shifts abruptly to a fundamental harmony of interest between the general and his soldiers, and between a king and his subjects. The general contends well himself and also (kaí) causes his soldiers to contend well. The king presides nobly over his own life and also (kaí) causes happiness for his subjects. The primary concern of the leader is left somewhat unclear. Does he seek primarily his own interest, or that of his subjects? Socrates leaves open both the possibility that the good king ignores his own happiness, and the possibility that a king might live nobly on his own, without making his subjects happy.

The next section, despite promising an explanation of what preceded it (gar), presents only a confused syntactic jumble: “For indeed the king is elected not in order to attend to himself nobly, but so that those who elected him will also (kaí) do well because of him” (III.2.3). The first and second clauses seem to contradict each other, and implicitly equate self-sacrifice (by the ruler for the ruled) with a harmony of interest (between the ruler and the ruled). Despite his self-forgetting devotion, the ruler appears to wind up, like those who elected him, “doing well.” Or rather: the ruler sacrifices; but somehow it is precisely in that sacrifice that his interest, along with that of the ruled, is tacitly served. The electors, then, seem to share the king's jumbled mentality. Precisely in his self-forgetting sacrifice, he hopes to serve his own interest.Footnote ¹² The virtue of a ruler, then, is this: self-sacrificially to serve his own interest.

Next, Socrates claims that, “All (pantes) go on campaign/serve in the army (strateuontai) in order to have the best possible life, and for this purpose they elect generals, so that they will be their leaders for this” (III.2.3). “All”—including the general himself?—go on campaign out of self-interest, and for this purpose “they”—apparently the general is not included—elect generals. “So the one who is general should furnish this to those who elected him general” (III.2.3)—but apparently not to himself. Of course, if the best possible life is the most virtuous life, and the most virtuous life is the life of the greatest benefactor (here, the ruler), then the ruled, as such, can never be furnished with the best possible life, no matter how noble their benefactor. Socrates calls it the “virtue of a good leader” to make others happy. But isn't virtue a good, or even the greatest possession? Don't we often consider the most virtuous life to be the best possible life?Footnote ¹³ If so, it would seem that the leader attains the best possible life for himself by becoming the greatest benefactor. But can the attainment of the best possible life be referred to as self-sacrificial? Unless the happiest life is a life that is inferior and incomplete, we are tempted to say that the best possible life would also be the happiest life, in the truest sense of the word “happiness.” But how could the ruler make others happy in the truest sense if true happiness means living the best possible life and thus being the greatest benefactor, rather than being the recipient of benefits from another? Alternatively, we might say that the best possible life is something that can be given to the ruled by a ruler—in other words, that being and remaining ruled by a benefactor can be the best possible life. But in that case, it would seem that even as the ruler's task became more coherent, his motivation for that task might weaken. His true good would seem to lie not in benefiting but in becoming ruled by a benefactor.

Socrates continues. To rule as a self-forgetting and self-sacrificial benefactor, who simultaneously serves his own interest, is noble: “in fact it's not easy to find anything else more noble than this or more shameful than its opposite” (III.2.4). And yet the virtue of a good leader has come to light as, in a sense, its own opposite.

The puzzle of the ruler's own good has only intensified in this chapter. It would seem very difficult, according to this presentation, for a human being to find choiceworthy a model according to which rule is purely self-sacrificial, purely bad for himself. Even the portrait painted in this chapter, which presents itself as an articulation of perfectly selfless virtue, cannot help but allow considerations of the ruler's own good to sneak in.

Nicomachides’ Implicit Objections

The chapter as a whole, then, presents a confrontation between the model of rule as self-sacrifice and the new Socratic model of rule as household management. Nicomachides seems to have three separate but related objections to the way in which Socrates strips dignity or nobility from military or political rule.

First, Nicomachides objects generally to the Socratic denial of any essential difference between public rule and other types of management. This denial implies that political rule is no more dignified or exalted than household management.

Second, he objects to the Socratic characterization of rule as essentially self-interested rather than noble. Antisthenes, loving victory yet cleverly keeping at a distance from the actual fighting, will gladly spend his wealth on “victory in contests of war—a victory with the whole city” (III.4.5). He will, perhaps, even treat the army as a means to his own honor. Nicomachides would seem to despise such selfishness. And yet, he himself was dissatisfied with a purely self-sacrificial model of rule. To judge from his indignation, his own sacrifices for the city were made partly on the assumption that some reward, such as office or honor, would accrue to him personally (cf. Homer trans. Lattimore, IX.314–27). And yet he, at least, has displayed noble courage and sacrificed greatly, in a way that a household manager like Antisthenes never would.

Third, Nicomachides would seem to object to something implicit in Socrates’ model of rule as household management: the separation of the ruler from the ruled. Nicomachides’ insistence that the general fight with his soldiers points to his understanding of a general as “one of the men,” who shares in their hardships and sacrifices. The dignity of rule lies precisely in its being rule over equals (Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 63). The model of household management, which implies that the ruled are beneath the manager, or even akin to slaves, strips dignity from rule. And yet Nicomachides himself had sought separation from, and elevation over, the ruled. He had felt, and still feels, great dissatisfaction with remaining “one of the men.” It makes him indignant to think that he must continue simply to serve and to sacrifice. Elective office is appealing precisely because it offers a kind of separation from his fellows. His own desires, then—without any imposition by Socrates—point to a great problem in the model of rule over equals, or the model of service to (betters or) equals. Not enough honor or reward, not enough separation or exaltation, result from such ruling, to satisfy the rulers.

Rule as Separation

The tension between the desires in Nicomachides’ soul, or the tension between his egalitarian hopes and his inegalitarian hopes, points us to a tension on the theoretical plane. If we isolate and pull on that strand of his soul which appears to be inegalitarian—that strand which longs to look down upon those whom he rules—we may see this tension more clearly. According to this inegalitarian model of rule, a ruler would see himself as separate from, or fundamentally elevated above, the ruled. But if we grant, for the moment, the inegalitarian premise of such a ruler, then the notion of rule as service might lose much of its coherence and appeal. One definition of justice is that the better ought to receive what is better and the worse ought to receive what is worse (Plato Republic 334d9–11, Aristotle Politics 1280a7–15). But if the ruler is truly elevated above, truly superior to, the ruled, then would it be just for him to serve and to sacrifice for their sake? In other words, would it be just for the better to get what is worse in order that the worse might get what is better?

And yet, as Nicomachides would surely agree, to avoid such sacrifices would strip rule of its dignity, its nobility. In addition, it would open the door to the exploitation of the ruled. Or, perhaps more radically: Would not a ruler who firmly understood himself to be separate from or elevated above the ruled be tempted to forego ruling altogether? Not only service, but even rule itself might lose its appeal. In other words, would such a ruler continue to feel (i) a sense of obligation, to a community of which he no longer felt himself to be a part, or (ii) the allure of receiving honor from those he believed to be less worthy than himself? Such a ruler might come to see rule not as household management but as household servitude, as did Socrates’ companion Aristippus (II.1.8–9, cf. Xenophon trans. Ambler 2001, I.6.7).Footnote ¹⁶

It would seem, then, that a conception of rule according to which a ruler feels separated from, or exalted over, those whom he rules, presents us with a deep tension. Such a conception simultaneously (i) may be essential to creating a desire to rule, and (ii) thought through, may become destructive of the motive to rule nobly (or at all). How, then, can a mentality of service and a mentality of rule coincide?

The problem, to rephrase it slightly, is that those who might be inclined to rule— especially those who would make the best rulers—need honor and elevation as a lure in order to undertake the often difficult task of ruling. And yet that very elevation can lead to a mindset according to which rulers may find self-interested rule to be reasonable and even just (cf. II.6.16; Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 51). The impression of an incoherence in the idea of serving one's lessers may lead them to see rule as either an opportunity to exploit or as an undignified chore.

The Haze of Rule

According to the analysis of rule presented so far, it would seem necessary that a ruler often forego the clarification of certain aspects of his activity. He would need to view himself as both within his community and separate from it. If he were not within it, he would not be obligated or inclined to serve it; and if he were not separate from it, he would not feel the exalted allure of rule. He would need, also, to view himself as simultaneously below, equal to, and above those whom he ruled. If he were not below them, the obligation to (or coherence of) noble service would be weakened. If he were not equal to them, something of the dignity of rule would be lost. If he were not above them, the necessary rewards of rule, the honors and the admiration, would be lacking.

So what is the solution to this problem? Must a ruler simply maintain a confused conception of his own activity? Must he believe he is ruling over something that is above him, in order to maintain both his elevation and its exaltedness?Footnote ¹⁷ Can a concerned observer of politics depend upon the durability of that confusion? The political problem takes shape, in these chapters, in the form of the following question: How can one motivate the best, or the most capable of ruling, both to feel the need to serve, and, simultaneously, to feel the allure of rule as exalted and honored? The next chapter, thankfully, promises an answer.

Socrates’ Anti-Periclean Conservatism

The chapter as a whole presents an implicit attack on the older Pericles and an explicit recommendation of a conservative or even reactionary politics. Periclean imperialism is attacked from the very first sentence. With the younger Pericles as general, Socrates hopes that Athens will “both be better at matters of war and have a better reputation regarding them, and that it will overpower its enemies” (III.5.1). A city's being better at matters of war, then, appears to be different from its overpowering its enemies; the best policy may be defensive, even isolationist. Socrates then praises fear as conducive to order (III.5.5–6). And when the young Pericles asks how he might turn the citizens toward a renewed erotic passion for “their ancient virtue, fame, and happiness” (III.5.7), Socrates immediately suggests a much cooler, more level-headed perspective. The citizens should view virtue as wealth, as something profitable. The elder Pericles’ policy of stirring up erotic passion in the citizens (cf. Thucydides, trans. Crawley 1998, II.43) is quickly rejected. Instead, Socrates spends much of the chapter urging Pericles to turn the citizens toward a reverence for their ancestors.

Never does he consider praising, as the elder Pericles praised (ibid., II.36), the contemporary over the ancient (Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 66). Only with hesitation does he praise even the more recent ancestors: those ancestors may be praised, if Pericles wishes. They are only “said to have far surpassed human beings of their time,” whereas the more ancient ancestors were “clearly the most excellent human beings of their time” (III.5.11, 10). Reverence for the ancestors prohibits any thought of surpassing them in virtue; only the Athenians’ contemporaries may be surpassed (III.5.14). When Pericles despairs at the disobedience of Athenian soldiers, Socrates reminds him of the nobility, lawfulness, grandeur, and justice of the judgments made by the Council of the Areopagus, an aristocratic institution weakened by Pericles the elder (Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 67).

Socrates’ overall political stance, then, would seem to be conservative or even reactionary.Footnote ¹⁸ The popular mindset should be one of self-restraint and traditionalism. The citizens must be kept lawful and reverent; the orderliness of chorus members is twice praised (III.5.6, 18). Emulation of Sparta is recommended (III.5.14); the citizens must obey their leaders and strive always for virtue, especially physical or military virtue. But all of this, of course, raises a pressing question: What are the grounds for Socrates’ conservatism? When we consider Socrates’ own way of life, which is anything but traditional, and his praise of free-thinking inquiry as the peak of that life (IV.5.12, IV.6.1), his conservatism seems quite strange. Why would such a free thinker endorse a hidebound or even antiphilosophically reverent traditionalism? In other words, how can Socratic political theory be reconciled with Socratic political practice?

Confidence and Fear

A closer look at Chapter Five reveals a strange “pendulum effect.” Socrates seems to alternate between, on the one hand, a praise of confidence, self-assertiveness, and even self-exaltation, and, on the other hand, a praise of fear, reverence, and humility. He approves of the Athenians being more well-disposed (eumenēs) toward themselves than are their rivals the Boeotians (III.5.2). Reminding them of the noble deeds of their ancestors will be useful in making them more exalted (meizo) “and turning them toward attending to virtue” (III.5.3). Socrates here seems to approve of a high self-estimation, not as a result of virtue but as its precondition, as a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. But “confidence/boldness (tharsos) implants neglect, easygoingness, and disobedience, while fear makes people more attentive, more obedient, and more orderly” (III.5.5). Boldness is bad, and fear creates order. And yet a confidence that they possess virtue will make the Athenians attend to virtue (III.5.8). But they must simultaneously be convinced that they don't yet fully possess virtue. They must strive to claim the virtue that is theirs, fearful of losing it. The ancestors were superior, and are to be humbly revered.

And yet, when Pericles brings up the gods, Socrates shifts the focus to demigods and ancient human heroes. This focus on demigods parallels the teaching that virtue is the Athenian patrimony, both nearby and slightly out of reach: instead of humility before the untouchable majesty of the wholly divine, Socrates suggests that the most magnificent virtue is, though not yet attained, attainable for human beings. This teaching about demigods and human heroes would seem to err on the side of implanting confidence in human beings. But Socrates immediately qualifies this, explaining the lack of virtue among Athenians as the result of overconfidence and complacency (III.5.13).

The question then arises: Why does Socrates exhibit this ambivalence? In the first half of this chapter, he must alternate a total of five times between advising confidence and advising fear. Perhaps he means to indicate, through this wavering, the extreme and eternal difficulty of maintaining the balance between fear and confidence in a political community. Confidence is crucial to energizing the citizenry to pursue virtue; but that very confidence can easily destroy virtue through self-satisfaction. Virtue brings with it the self-consciousness of worth and the thought of a reward. Perhaps, then, Socrates points to a problem within our understanding of virtue. If virtue means nobly sacrificing one's own interest, it seems to deserve a reward. But that reward, if it involves or consists in a cessation of sacrifice, means that one's virtue is destroyed. But is not virtue the greatest good? Is the reward then a punishment? But without a reward, can a person remain motivated to strive for virtue? If virtue is understood to culminate in its own cessation or in a reward, and is sought on the basis of that understanding, then virtue would seem mercenary, a mere means to self-interest; this is not exalted enough to match our opinions about what virtue ought to be. But to say that virtue has no reward, and remains always an exalted end in itself—or, to say that virtue's reward is simply the opportunity to exercise more virtue—may not completely satisfy our hopes. According to this line of argument, virtue unrewarded loses luster, while virtue rewarded lapses into contradiction.

The dangers of confidence as a symptom of virtue might explain, to some extent, Socrates’ conservatism. Civic virtue might itself create a widespread feeling of worthiness and thus a demand for a deserved cessation of striving. Virtue would then be discarded in the name of justice. A general unleashing and encouragement of innovation and self-interest would allow for this novel and self-interested neglect of virtue to proceed (cf. Xenophon trans. Ambler 2001, VIII.8). A reverent traditionalism, by providing role models whose virtues could never quite be matched, would prevent overconfidence, neglect, and luxury. But this argument can only go so far. To understand more fully the grounds for Socratic conservatism, we must turn to the chapter's central section.

The Inversion of Virtue

After Socrates praises a piety based on reverence for demigods and human heroes, he recommends the emulation of Sparta. Here Pericles despairs. How will the Athenians ever mimic the Spartans, given that the Athenians now have contempt for their own fathers? Pericles points to an astonishing feature of Athenian life during this time of strife and social dissolution: it is precisely the most honor-loving—those who, “as opinion has it, are distinguished among the citizens by their gentlemanliness (nobility and goodness)”—who “are the most disobedient of all” (III.5.19). Upon hearing this suggestion, Socrates attempts to change the subject (III.5.20), and, after a brief protest from Pericles, succeeds (III.5.21). But the point has been made. If Pericles is right that those who had always displayed the most intense love of honor—a trait that Socrates himself had listed as a crucial civic virtue (III.5.3)—are now becoming the most disorderly or even the most vicious, then the question arises: why?

In Pericles’ account, the answer becomes clear: the honor-loving, as it seems, are viewing their own disobedience and immorality as virtue. The Athenians “not only themselves neglect good condition but even ridicule those who attend to it” (III.5.15). They “exult (agallontai) in their contempt for their rulers” (III.5.16). While “using the common property as if it were foreign, they fight in turn over this and take most delight in their abilities/powers (dunamesi) in such matters” (III.5.16). Contempt for the old and the lawful are becoming not merely acceptable but esteemed. In these times of severe social instability, when justice, law, and tradition are coming into question, it seems that virtue has reverted to what might be called a more natural form. Virtue has become the power, ability, and willingness to get what one wants (cf. Thucydides trans. Crawley 1998, II.53, III.82–84).Footnote ¹⁹ Courage, the love of honor, and the love of virtue itself have turned against lawfulness.

And yet to call this type of virtue natural is misleading. The problem diagnosed by Pericles has to some extent, paradoxically, been created by law itself. Precisely because law has always been so highly revered by the citizens, it may come to seem mighty and glorious—especially to those whose love of honor is naturally strong and has been inflamed by life in a certain kind of political community—to liberate themselves from and conquer Law itself. When lawfulness as a virtue becomes questionable, then, a society of robust and honor-loving souls tends toward something far worse than a reversion to “natural virtue” or an absence of law; it tends toward a reactionary and deliberate lawlessness.

A healthy society, at least in Socrates’ portrait, must heighten both the reverence for law and the love of (honor and) virtue, especially courage. But in such a context this very reverence for law creates, if not the seeds of its own destruction, at least an extreme fragility. It is the Socratic awareness of this fragility that helps to explain Socratic conservatism. Through free inquiry, Socrates came to understand the character of something every healthy society in some way takes for granted: lawfulness. Any innovation in the basic norms or structure of a community threatens to spread and infect the rest. After a certain degree of reverence for the old and the lawful has withered, virtue as lawfulness may, not simply evaporate, but flip or invert into “virtue” as antilawfulness.Footnote ²⁰

Aristocracy and the Fatherland

Socrates’ praise of the aristocratic Council of the Areopagus points us back to the unresolved problem of the relational character of rule. We encountered, in analyzing Chapter Four, the danger of aristocratic exploitation. The question there became: How can a ruler be made to feel himself both beneath the ruled, so that he might feel an obligation to serve them, and, simultaneously, above the ruled, so that he might feel honored and exalted in his task? Service requires honoring the object of devotion, and yet politics demands that the best serve. How could the ruler's haze of relational ambivalence be resolved—in either direction—without dissolving either the motive to rule (that is, one might come to see oneself a mere servant) or the motive to rule well (that is, one might come to see oneself as deserving of the freedom to exploit)?

A closer look at Chapter Five reveals the answer. As the younger Pericles is informed of the virtues of Athenian citizens, Socrates finally introduces a crucial concept. The Athenians’ are honor-loving and affectionate, qualities which “spur one to take risks on behalf of both good reputation and fatherland” (III.5.3). What is the fatherland? It would appear to be a kind of transcendent abstraction of the city. The good citizen considers his own noble ancestors (and their traditions), his current compatriots, and his future descendants all to be a part of this larger whole. He fits within the structure of, and serves, this grander being.

The belated introduction of the fatherland clarifies how Pericles could simultaneously disdain his fellow citizens as immoral (III.5.15–7) and deeply desire to serve them—just as Nicomachides, in the previous chapter, had felt an indignant contempt for the Athenians, while that contempt in no way diminished his desire to serve. All of this is possible because, to a large extent, these men yearning for the noble things seem not to conceive of themselves as serving the people, but rather as serving the fatherland itself. The concept of the fatherland thereby solves the relational problem of rule. A man may simultaneously rule and serve, because he understands himself to be ruling the citizens and serving the fatherland. In other words, he feels himself to be erotically devoted to the fatherland, as are the other citizens, whom he rules. His service to them can, whenever necessary, be understood as an incidental byproduct of his service to the fatherland. He looks up to the fatherland and down upon them.

Yet pressing questions arise. First, what exactly is the fatherland? How is it perceived, and what role does it play in spurring ambition? And second, can even the fatherland resolve the difficulty of whether ruling is good or bad for the ruler? Perhaps it does promise such a resolution.Footnote ²¹ But at the chapter's end, Socrates does not mention the fatherland. If Pericles achieves any of the things that Socrates has advised, Socrates tells him, “it will be both noble for you and good for the city. While, if you are unable to accomplish some one of them, you will neither harm the city nor shame yourself” (III.5.28). Pericles’ political involvement may be either noble or shameful for him; no mention is made of whether it will be good or harmful for him. Only the city’s good or harm is considered. The crucial question remains unanswered: Is the ruler's noble action good for him?

Glaucon Versus Pericles

Glaucon is a much less impressive interlocutor than the young Pericles. Not only does he lack self-knowledge and moderation, but his ambitions are much more self-interested. Pericles desired to rule in order to benefit the city or the fatherland; he showed great anxiety at the city's deterioration. But for Glaucon, the city is a mere means to honor and self-exaltation; its good is an afterthought: Socrates must remind him of it (III.6.3). And Glaucon has been so focused on the great rewards of rule that he has ignored entirely the exercise of the ruling virtue; he thinks he can become famous without first learning how to rule. Socrates seeks to correct this, steering him toward the possession of virtue and away from its rewards.

But if Glaucon is unimpressive or even ridiculous, the question then arises: Why descend from Pericles to Glaucon? What in Pericles’ own mentality necessitated the investigation of a character like Glaucon?

The Memorabilia's first mention of the word “fatherland” may be instructive here. In Book II, in a dialogue with the half-Socratic hedonist Aristippus, Socrates stressed that those who do good deeds for the fatherland take pleasure and “delight in living, since they admire themselves and are praised and emulated by others” (II.1.19). The motive for benefiting and serving the fatherland, at least in this initial presentation, would seem to be tightly linked with the desire for self-admiration and praise. Perhaps, then, the wild Glaucon is merely more transparent about motives the younger Pericles secretly shares. Perhaps even Pericles tacitly understood erotic devotion to be a means to self-exaltation, and personal fame to be the middle term connecting virtue and happiness (see IV.5.7, cf. Xenophon trans. Ambler 2001, III.3.53 and V.2.10–12).

Glaucon's Hopes

If Glaucon might represent, with comic hypertrophy or comic openness, motives shared by every man devoted to the fatherland, we must investigate those motives. In a crucial passage of Chapter Six, Socrates outlines what Glaucon hopes to attain through presiding over the city. These hopes would appear to be fanciful. And yet Glaucon, apparently agreeing with Socrates’ rosy characterization of his future, remains in Socrates’ presence “with pleasure.” It would seem that Socrates has indeed uncovered something implicit in the type of ambition that Glaucon is meant to embody. An analysis of this list of hopes, then, will be essential to an understanding of the new model of rule presented (and, once again, contrasted with the Socratic model of rule as household management) in this chapter.

Upon hearing of Glaucon's plans to preside over their city, Socrates immediately swears by Zeus and calls this noble, “if indeed anything else among human beings is.” Presiding over the city is noble because (gar):

Presiding over the city is noble first of all because it will make Glaucon omnipotent, or nearly so. Anything he happens to desire will be attainable for him. Socrates mentions the benefiting of friends, but the stress is on Glaucon's own competence as a benefactor. He will enlarge his fatherland and become more and more famous, self-expansively, until his own reputation fills the world. He will become as enduring as Themistocles or Themistocles’ enduring name. Wherever he is—apparently even when alone—he will be gazed at or admired. He may be said to obtain, in this portrait, a status nearly divine. At any rate, he would seem to expect from his presiding a great change in his condition. Honor from all human beings will (announce or) lead to this change, and thus to great, though somewhat vague, rewards. When Socrates said all of this, “Glaucon was exalted/made great (emegaluneto) and remained with pleasure” (III.6.3). This verb appears nowhere else in the Memorabilia. Taken in conjunction with the pleasure Glaucon feels, it seems to indicate some degree of self-consciousness or even self-admiration. Socrates’ speech produces not impatience but pleasure; Glaucon enjoys not merely the forecast itself but also the vote of confidence and the spur to self-admiration it provides. The grandeur of his vision of himself or his future self, as clarified by Socrates, may entitle us to consider him the paradigm of the hopes accompanying or fueling a certain type of ambition.

Glaucon considers the city a means to his glory or exaltation. Benefiting the city will lead to the honor he craves. Only as an afterthought, in the glow of exaltation, does he examine “just then where he would begin” in doing good deeds for the city. But the city, the act of benefiting the city, or the resultant honors—if they are to transform him to such a great extent—must be quite exalted things themselves.Footnote ²² It is for this reason that, despite their differences, Glaucon's vision of rule must share a key concept with Pericles’ vision. Pericles’ model of rule was one of mutual erotic devotion to the fatherland. Glaucon, far more blatantly self-interested, presents a model of rule as erotic devotion to an ideal of oneself. Glaucon thus appears to solve the problem of the ruler's self-interest that had plagued Pericles’ model of rule. Yet Glaucon too must lean upon a conception of the fatherland (III.6.2). If the city is so powerful as to transform his very being, it must—though a means—be exalted. But the question has become only more pressing: What is the fatherland?

The Fatherland, The City, and The Demos

Despite his talents, Charmides is afraid of entering political life. From Socrates’ and Xenophon's perspective, Charmides is hesitant to approach the demos (III.7.1). But when Socrates, in conversation with Charmides, analogizes that hesitation or fear to the hesitation of an admirable athlete, he speaks of the fatherland. Charmides responds that an athlete who failed to obtain honor “and enhance the reputation of his fatherland” would be “soft and cowardly.” Socrates, turning to political engagement, then speaks of the city (polis). If a naturally powerful man hesitated to enlarge his city—the city's size, not its reputation, is mentioned—would he not plausibly be considered a coward? Here Charmides catches on and becomes reticent (III.7.2). Finally, Socrates makes it personal and appeals to shame: Is Charmides himself not a coward for—despite his great talents—failing to engage in political affairs?

Charmides questions Socrates’ faith in his abilities. But Socrates has seen Charmides, behind the scenes, nobly advising the “real” political men. Convinced of his own abilities or Socrates’ competence to judge them, Charmides argues against political engagement on the grounds that private abilities are different from public abilities. In private, one converses; in public, one competes for a prize (agonizesthai). But Socrates denies, as he earlier denied to Nicomachides (III.4.12; cf. Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 63), any essential difference between private and public action. In any activity, only ability matters; the number of spectators, be they none or a multitude, counts for nothing.

Charmides counters: Does Socrates not understand that awe (aidos) and fear are “naturally inborn (emphuta) in human beings and that they present themselves/come to stand near one (paristamena) far more in crowds than in private company?” (III.7.5). If Charmides’ understanding of human nature is correct, human beings are naturally political animals, or very nearly so. Crowds, especially somewhat orderly crowds, can easily be perceived as a unity, and even personified. Natural awe must merely be tethered to the political community or the fatherland, as a kind of deity, to whom respect and service must be offered (cf. Tocqueville trans. Mansfield Reference Tocqueville2000, I.2.6).Footnote ²³

But Socrates, in order to counteract Charmides’ hesitation to enter politics, picks apart this perspective on the city. Most clear-sightedly, the city is viewed not as the fatherland, nor even, perhaps, as a unity, but as a collection of individual human beings: fullers, shoemakers, carpenters, smiths, farmers, merchants, those who barter in the agora (III.8.6). The city is not, according to this account, more exalted than its parts. Charmides’ shame or fear is irrational. Many in the city are senseless, weak, and easily overcome by men like the virtuous Charmides (III.7.5, 7.8).

Socrates concludes with an exhortation to self-understanding (III.7.9). If Charmides came to understand himself, he would better understand the fatherland or the city, unlike the many (hoi polloi). If he understood himself, he would still speak of awe and fear as natural in human beings, but perhaps he would not speak of them as “presenting themselves to one/coming near one (paristamena),” as if from outside.

Rule as Friendship

In his final exhortation, Socrates tells Charmides not to neglect the city's affairs: “for when these things are going well, not only the other citizens but also your friends and, not least, you yourself will benefit” (III.7.9). This model of rule not only solves the problem of the ruler's own good, but apparently solves the problem of exploitation—through the introduction of friendship. According to this model of rule, a ruler benefits from ruling through a nonexalted, clear-sighted enjoyment of (i) living in a well-functioning city, (ii) the exercise of his own virtue, (iii) the real—as opposed to vague, distant, and exalted—rewards of rule, such as honor (cf. II.1.18–19), and (iv) benefiting his friends. If a ruler's feeling of friendship can extend to the entire city,Footnote ²⁴ the problem of rule will be solved. If men are only friends with those who are like them (cf. II.6.20–22), and the rulers are, or must consider themselves to be, superior to the many, then the problem of rule will remain. An analysis of Charmides’ own political career may shed light upon this question (cf. Strauss Reference Strauss1972, 73). Though it came at the expense of religious reverence for the fatherland, Socrates would seem to have found a coherent and choiceworthy model of rule.